


Twenty-four seven

by OneAutumnAfternoon



Series: And with a grain of salt. [5]
Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Aine-centric, Character Study, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneAutumnAfternoon/pseuds/OneAutumnAfternoon
Summary: Sometimes, Aine doesn't wake upright.





	Twenty-four seven

**Author's Note:**

> Three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

When Aine opens his eyes, sunlight is streaming out of the window. Gentle amber spills across his sheets in a soft glow; the more he stares at it, the more something as pure and bright loses its touch with reality in his mind. If haven were to exist in pockets and small moments, this would be one of his.

Seconds tick by and he gets restless.

_Radio static. Morning calm. Riverside._

_White noise._

He can't tell seconds apart from minutes anymore, there are no clocks in his room. Instead, he knows it’s time to get up when his hands start to tremble. His fingers twitch and curl around the sheets, dislodging the calm. The world fades back into awareness from his safe haven in bits and pieces.

_Leaves rustling. Heart beating. Slow breaths. Sheets creasing._

He is awake now.

Gentle breeze runs through his veins, echoing in his bones and between his fingers like crossing hollow caverns and mountain peaks. His posture sways as he sits like a baby deer and it's both frustrating and familiar. His body feels weak today again as if it can barely move without taking a gargantuan effort to articulate all of his muscles and joints the right way.

It's one of those days again.

Seconds tick by as he regains composure. Aine takes as deep of a breath of morning dust as he can to keep it under lock and key inside his chest. Sunlight gets him through most mornings; enough so he can open the windows at the kitchen sink and see today's lazy clouds. He has to see how the patch of climbing honeysuckle next door is doing. He has to refill the hand-sized cap of bird food by the windowsill in the front yard. Maybe there are some dishes uncle forgot to do.

_Checklists. Pinwheels._

_Cogs turning and turning_

_and_

_turning - -_

Pinpricks start by his shoulders and end down by his legs as he changes for the day, it's a warning to how much he can do today. A promise he won't get to do as much as he wishes he could, even if it leaves him unsatisfied. There's a list of things he has to take care of, somewhere. There's an inbox he needs to read and the numbers only keep getting bigger, but he has no motivation to look at any of them. Every word feels reused even as he skims through the first two rows of kanji at the top.

He's hyper-aware of the caress of cotton against his skin. His pants are stiff and tight. His shirt is slippery and cold. The hems by his forearm drag enough to itch and rob him of hunger.

The trek to the kitchen takes more than expected, mostly because he keeps looking at the furniture like it's never been there and was just brought over. It's not. Everything is the same as always, but it doesn't stop him from marveling over the loose strands of worn down leather of the loveseat by the TV. His eyes travel across the room. It's the same as always. Nothing has changed, and yet... Nothing looks familiar either. Not the empty vase by the corner stand, not the basket of slowly rotting fruit on the kitchen table or the mint walls and bone-white wood borders.

There is a bentō full of food by the fridge. Aine stares down at his handwriting on the pastel yellow post-it note he found almost a week ago; it's left untouched. Maybe he should throw it out. Even if his uncle were to eat it today, he's doubtful it'd still be serviceable.

The cereal tastes like white rice in rainwater.

His hand clenches tightly around the spoon handle as his temper flares high, a sharp spike of clarity against the foggy background.

_I'm tired of this._ He stills and breathes, burning red muffling against muddy, monotone grey again.

_I'm tired._ The air _tastes_ stale and heavy. His lungs can't muster the courage to brave more than shallow breaths against the downpour.

It's raining. He's soaking wet.

_[ i am so, so tired. ]_

...

Message Not Sent.


End file.
